


Birthday Boy

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Misha Collins, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Praise Kink, Sex Worker Jared Padalecki, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Jared Padalecki, Voyeurism, verse jensen ackles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29200641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Original prompt: Misha knows Jensen is a bottom at heart and although he doesn’t really like to top, he does it for Misha. For Jensen’s birthday, Misha hires an escort (Jared) who gives Jensen the fuck he has been wanting for years.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins, Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	Birthday Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isoughtyouout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isoughtyouout/gifts).



> “verse Jensen ackles” = Jensen bottoms with Jared (90% of this fic) but tops with Misha (10% of this fic). 
> 
> It is in fact **my** birthday today but y'all and Jensen are getting a present, too ❤.

Jensen hasn’t been this fucking agitated since Misha surprise-bombed his little sister’s wedding in that rather flashy dress. Unfortunately for Jensen, distress is a more than adorable look on him.

“Babe, I _promise_ he’s not even gonna notice how fluffed the pillows are.”

Misha’s boyfriend grumbles into his no-longer-existent beard (clean shave, minutes ago). Has his arms crossed tight in front of his chest and is horribly tense to the touch when Misha wraps his arms around him from behind to cradle him sweet.

Jensen scoffs. Misha coos.

“Don’t baby me.”

“He’s not getting paid to judge our interior design choices, you know?” The doorbell startles Jensen so hard that Misha has to bite back a laugh. “You wanna get that, birthday boy?”

“I _will_ kill you,” but of course, Misha gets a kiss before he slips to the door. It’s the least he can do, really. Not the first domino piece, no sir.

As he lets their guest in, Misha has to—look up.

God, he forgot how tall this kid is.

‘Jared’ beams, “Hey,” and Misha reciprocates. Jared carries his huge duffle bag with him after getting rid of his coat (his boots, too, after Misha kindly asks him to), to the living room, to Jensen. “Hey,” he says here as well, and wow, he smells good.

Misha strolls over to Jensen, still draped on their sofa. Arm thrown over the back and all, legs crossed like he’s so straight, like they’re about to discuss a lease for a car. Misha rounds the couch to get his hands on his boyfriend, pets at his throat, thumbs at his jaw.

Jensen croaks, “Was the drive okay?”

Jared tells him, “It was,” as he shucks his bag off his shoulder, sets it down by the TV stand. Fixes his hair by blind habit, begins to roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt where he stands. Still that puppy-smile. Misha’s grin widens with excitement.

Getting Jensen to take the time off might have been the hardest part. Weeks of planning, of organizing—this. Right from the moment they bumped into the kid during that charity run after-party weeks ago, where Jensen had so desperately tried to not be charmed to hell and back. Misha, pulling Jared aside when Jensen had already left for the car, making him type his agent’s number into his phone. The thrill of keeping all of it a secret until he had secured the deal, had something genuine to offer, something real.

Misha considers himself a superb boyfriend, thank you very much.

He quips, “Drinks?” but Jared just shakes his pretty head, says,

“Nah, I’m good,”

and finally, finally comes over to them. To Jensen.

Misha might be spending a small fortune on the six-point-four sex on legs currently taking over the living room, but the true attraction is Jensen, always.

It’s new—this. And, for the record: usually, Jensen keeps his cool way better. But this is private, and he’s always been very particular about ‘private’.

Jared observes: “You’re nervous.”

Jensen opens his mouth to object but ends up clearing his throat instead.

“First time?”

“No—I mean—yeah.”

“That’s okay.” Jared’s smile could kill a man, really. He pops the first few buttons of his crisp white shirt. Misha can feel Jensen swallowing. “Relax. Let me handle everything.”

Jensen’s, “Okay,” comes softer, now.

Jared steps into the space Jensen creates by uncrossing his legs.

“Do you want me to leave you guys some room, or?”

“No,” rushes Jensen; touches his hand to Misha’s, twists to throw him a pleading look. “Stay.”

Jared assures them, “I don’t mind an audience.” Misha reciprocates that smile, keeps his hands on his man for reassurance. Jared’s eyes drop back to Jensen; the smile stays. “Still can’t believe you guys booked me,” he says, easy, honest. “I mean, look at you.”

“Oh, trust me, he doesn’t believe it either.”

Jared continues, “You’re gorgeous, man,” and Misha can’t help but be proud. Of Jensen, of himself. “You’re aware that _you_ should be paid, right?” Jensen scoffs, but he flushes. “I mean it. Can’t wait to see you all spread out, all undone for me. You’re gonna make the prettiest faces, won’t you?” and Jensen’s jaw ticks cute under Misha’s roaming fingers. Oh, man, this will be good.

“I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to do anything he’s told to do.”

“Oh? Are you a good boy like that, Jensen?”

“I’m—yeah.”

Misha coos, “Babe,” and slips his hand across Jensen’s chest, leans in to nudge his cheek to Jensen’s temple. “He hasn’t even touched you yet and you’re already so freaking hard.”

Jensen doesn’t reply; doesn’t have to. Jared’s smug look speaks volumes.

“Oh, I’ll touch him all right.”

Jared widens his stance so he can knock Jensen’s legs even farther apart. Jensen allows it; scoots lower on the couch like he can’t wait to get on his back for the kid, and Misha adores him.

“In fact, I want to touch him so much he’ll be begging for a break.”

Jensen half-blinks.

Jared doesn’t break their eye contact for a second. “That what you want, pretty boy?”

Jensen offers a shy, “Yes.” Misha flirts his hand across the unmistakable bump of a nipple as a reward.

“What else do you want?”

“Uhm. All of it. I mean…” Jensen shifts again, is still looking up at the call boy. Misha slips his hand into the neckline of Jensen’s shirt. “I. I want you to fuck me.”

Amused, Jared hums: “What else?”

Jensen stammers, “Uhm,” and Misha doesn’t laugh, doesn’t give him an easy way out. Circles Jensen’s nipple with his thumb under his dumb preppy shirt and sees that chin wobble from above. The shine on that bottom lip from where Jensen flicked his tongue over it. “Uhm, just… Make me—take it. I don’t care what. Take me over, like…”

“Like you own him,” helps Misha, and he hears his boyfriend inhale through his nose, all tight.

Jared informs, “That can be arranged.” In that same, calm tone: “So you want to be my bitch, Jensen? Is that it?”

“Jesus Christ,” and, louder, “yeah, that’s. _That_.”

“Tell him.”

“Make me your bitch,” and Jared’s mouth presses flat for that, and he blinks all sweet, like he’s flattered. Misha gives him a knowing glance.

“Good boy indeed.”

The kid sinks to his knees between Jensen’s spread legs, so easy—cups one of those huge-ass hands around one of Jensen’s knees, and Jensen’s leg jerks for that. Jared chuckles, “Easy,” and Misha generously plucks his hand out of Jensen’s shirt, stops the distraction. Nice view from up here: Jared’s hand, squeezing. Not going anywhere, just—there. “You need me to take it slow? We’ve got all week.”

“No, just, uhm. I’m just—excited.”

“Obviously.” (Jensen’s neck starts to get damp under Misha’s palm.) “This is for you, all right? So if you need something, anything, you tell me. Or him.” A nod, a flicker of eyes up to Misha. “No bullshit.”

Jensen nods.

“Good.” Jared’s head tilts ever-so-slightly. Again, even softer: “Relax,” and that hand moves up Jensen’s thigh, whole palm. Belt buckle; two hands.

Everyone is quiet. Watching—Jared, so elegant about it. Jensen lifts his ass off the sofa to help and Jared isn’t smiling anymore. Something else, now, as he fixes Jensen anew. Tugs both denim and underwear down in one go, slips them off Jensen’s ankles, rids him of his socks. Misha’s mouth waters on instinct—Jensen, spread out on their couch, bare from the waist down and rock-hard. The absolutely neat trim of his pubes makes his cock look even bigger than usual. Ridiculous.

Jared’s hand again, on top of that knee again. He taps it, twice.

“Hold these for me, would you?”

Jensen draws a shaky breath as he complies. He pulls his legs towards his chest, easy as that. Jared swoops his eyes low. Sits back on his haunches.

He places four fingers into the crease of that thigh and his thumb right over the dry heat of Jensen’s asshole. Misha would remind Jensen to breathe if he had the capacity.

“You got that done for me?”

Jensen’s head wobble-nods in the cup of Misha’s palm. He begins, “I thought,” but the baby-pulse of that thumb melts that away. Not quite pushing inside yet, just—teasing. Coaxing.

“I hope you don’t expect me to leave this alone for a single fucking second,” and while Misha’s not a fan of the whole shaving or waxing culture, watching this dude’s face diving into the baby-smooth crease of his boyfriend’s ass is just _good_.

Judging by Jensen’s voice, that counts for him as well.

Misha laughs, “Fuck,” and bows low to see, be close. Both hands on Jensen’s face, one thumb in the corner of that shuddering mouth. Jared sighs like he’s coming home; eyes closed, cheeks and jaw working.

Jensen groans.

Jared gets one hand to the back of his thigh to squeeze, soothe. A flash of his tongue when he pulls back, how it presses huge and flat against the tight pucker of Jensen’s hole. Back in, lips and all. Another sigh.

Jensen tips his head back, so Misha kisses him. Murmurs something along the lines of how _you’ve **so** earned this_ and _feeling good, babe?_ and Jensen’s throat clicks with his swallow, his dry _uh-hum_.

Jared comes up with his thumb tucked where he slicked Misha’s boyfriend so very generously. “Let’s take this off, c’mon, let’s see you right,” and he uses one arm to help Jensen squirm out of his shirt, yank it off his head. Misha assists by smoothing Jensen’s hair vaguely back in shape.

One palm to Jensen’s forehead, a kiss to the crown of his hair; low, “Fuck,” from Jensen, breathless just from—this. Misha might have been teasing the poor guy a little too hard these past couple of days. Maybe.

“Dude, how are you not on his ass twenty-four seven?”

“In my defense, his front is very distracting.”

Jared states _huh_ and startles Jensen by grabbing him by the waist, yanking him towards him (one hand, mind you). “I’ll help you catch up, yeah?” and Jensen nods and croaks,

“Please,”

like he’s close to tears. Like if this guy just whipped his dick out and fed it up his ass without further ado, he’d be beyond fine with that.

Jared hums. Oh, how _pleased_ he looks. “Yeah,” he agrees, eyes dreamy and low where his thumb massages Jensen’s asshole into compliance, before he bows back down, settles back in. Jensen, who had to let go of his legs to strip out of his shirt, scrambles to resume his earlier position.

Offered up, ass nearly hanging off the sofa, he’s—oh, happy fucking birthday indeed.

Misha grins, light-headed with hanging over the backrest, with the sight of Jensen, melting. “Happy?”

“So fucking happy,” and Misha kisses him again.

The next time Jared comes up to stretch his jaw, wipe at his chin, he’s got a healthy flush going on for himself.

Murmurs, “So fucking small,” and gets his hands on Jensen’s ass to pry his cheeks apart, both thumbs on either side of Jensen’s hole, the spit-soaked dark pink of it. Misha’s ass clenches in sympathy, stirs his dick up against the fly of his pants. “You sure you want me to get all up in there? You think I’ll fit?”

Jensen groans blasphemy. Both Jared and Misha laugh. “I’ll cry,” warns Jensen, “I’ll fucking _cry_ if you don’t.”

“Well, eventually.” Jared’s cheeks dimple up as he gives a couple of half-hearted smacks right across Jensen’s soft-licked hole. He sucks his lips behind his teeth again, chuckles under his breath. His hair is still perfect, what the fuck. “Gotta admit though, I kinda wanna see you cry, too.”

Jensen’s, “I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, man,” is so sweet, so earnest, that Misha can’t help but coo at him, kiss his ear.

“Yeah? That bad, huh?” and Jensen nods again, keeps holding his beautiful legs, keeps getting his hole rubbed all warm and slick. Jared hums all considerate. “I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do,” and both Misha’s and Jensen’s dicks throb stupid with the distinct noise of a zipper coming down somewhere out of sight.

Jared’s eyes flicker between them; his lip lifts with his scoff.

He reminds: “Easy.”

One hand still on Jensen’s ass, he gets his face back in there. Keeps his other hand away, strokes himself. Misha swallows.

Jensen sighs all blissed.

“Give me something—fingers; _anything_ , man…!”

But Jared just tuts at him. Holds Jensen open for his tongue, pulls his ass nice and taut, but nothing more. Laps at him like a dog, now, long and wide drags from tailbone to taint instead of that close press. When Jensen grumbles in frustration, Jared simply tilts his head so he can catch the swell of that waxed-smooth taint between his teeth, bear down just enough to make Jensen repeat. Hollows his cheeks and sucks, and Misha, now that he thinks about it, _requires_ hickeys all over Jensen’s ass.

Muffled, “Please,” but all Jensen gets is a close-mouthed kiss on his asshole. “Fuck, please…!”

All low, “Tell me what you want,” and, yeah, sound of skin on skin. Wetter, now. “You want my cock? Is that it? Nuh-uh, not yet,” and Jensen whines again. “Come on, say it. Gotta sell it to me, Jen.”

Jensen stammers, “Want it; _please_. Your hand, your cock—anything. Please, man, I _can’t_ ,” and Misha keeps himself from leaning down, putting his mouth on that beautiful dribble of precome forming at the tip of Jensen’s cock. Sweet, “Get it in me. Give it to me.”

Jared coos, “So pent up, aren’t you?” Frantic nods from Jensen; another tut from Jared’s well-used mouth. “I’m having way too much fun with this ass though, you’ll have wait a little longer. Oh, I know, baby, I know.” Jared stands up, then, and Misha’s pretended to be a Catholic on many-a occasions, but Holy Mother, if he crossed himself now it wouldn’t be much of a joke.

Turns out the numbers in that portfolio didn’t fucking lie.

“This is what you want?” Jared’s hand is still on the heavy-looking, fat line of his cock; holds it out for both Jensen and Misha to see, absolutely aware of what he’s got. He’s looking strictly at Jensen. “Let’s put it in your mouth first, how about that? So you can show me how much you want it.”

Part of Misha expects (wants) Jared to just kneel up on the couch, push his cock down Jensen’s throat and make him choke on it. But the guy’s got control that would put any service dog to shame; he calmly beckons Jensen to get up so he can take his place on the sofa.

He spreads his knees about as wide as Jensen did, earlier.

Only his cock pokes out the open fly of his black dress pants, swollen and veined and just _insane_ , really. His fingers flirt around the flared, massive head.

One of them is about to remind Jensen of what to do, but that spell breaks on its own—Jensen drops down like Jared had done it, puts his hands on the top of Jared’s thighs; roams them north, squeezes. That mix of hunger and romance pulls his pretty face into that one certain level of obscenity. Misha’s dick is acutely grateful for the backrest he can press his front against.

Jared is brave enough to mutter, “That’s a good look on you,” but his vocabulary leaves him once Jensen leans in and simply swallows him down.

Halfway and then (with some momentum) two thirds.

Misha commiserates, “Yeah, he’s pretty good at that,” while Jared hangs on through it. Misha swoops his hands over those too-tense shoulders and _damn_ there’s a lot of meat on this boy.

Jensen comes up with one of those nasty failed-swallow noises. His nostrils flare, lips still sealed tight around that cockhead, and Jared’s hands—hover next to his hips, forgotten. Jensen grants himself a coarse, “Fuck,” before he tucks Jared’s cock back into his mouth, his throat.

Misha cackles for how Jared melts into the sofa and Misha’s hands. He cups that neck, that face, like he did with Jensen.

Jared gives an airy, noncommittal reply for Misha’s, “Very distracting all over, unfortunately.”

Not only due to technique, Jensen moves slow.

A few strokes like that, buried nice and tight, Jared comes to. Mutters, “Jesus,” and, “Starving for it, huh?” He shifts in Misha’s hands, grounds his feet right. Collects himself. Jensen doesn’t need words to answer that question.

The fan of his lashes, the flush high on his cheeks. The missing beard is—something else, really.

“Look at that. So well-trained.”

Jared shifts, raises his hips just-so. Jensen’s rhythm falters. No pulling off, though. He crams another new half of an inch down his throat in retaliation.

Jared instructs, “No hands,” like Jensen Ross Ackles would _ever_.

Eyes closed, he loves it. A lost gag, half a cough. Jared’s dick shines spit-thick and Jensen sinks back down on it ASAP. Leaned-in so he can straighten his throat, let the guy up inside. Steady, low bob of his head, the tug of his lips on the way up. Jared’s hips roll less and less subtle.

Jared sighs through his nose, makes Jensen work for it. Not even a hand on that head, nothing. Just the imperative of his cock, demanding whatever Jensen’s throat is capable of. Jensen chokes again, pulls off again, breathes again. His eyes flutter open and towards Misha; open-mouthed breathing. Back down. Nearly to the base, this time.

Jared brings his hands in to keep him there, now. Not much strain just because Jensen doesn’t exactly buck, doesn’t _fight_ —the sheer presence of the boundary is enough to make him submit, let it happen. An empty heave when Jared pushes up, goes all in. A flinch, yes, but Jared tells him, “No. Let me,” and Jensen’s head is red and the first gush of tears finally pearls down his cheeks. He splutters. Or, whatever equivalent his limited options grant him.

Jensen’s lips stretch to the promise of Jared’s pubes peeking out of his fly, and Jared thrusts once, twice, before his hands let go. Jensen comes up with a heave for air, a truly wet fucking cough. A gob of spit smears across his own chin as he staggers, focuses—doesn’t even attempt to lick it away, clean it off. He hums, whines—something-something. Back on Jared’s dick, working him good.

Jared’s laugh drags delirious.

“Fuck. You fucking love it.”

Fascinated, Jared extends his efforts. Little by little, sure, but he’s got enough to work with that Jensen’s reduced to a sloppy, sweaty mess soon enough. Just holds himself still at this point so Jared can pump up into his throat in easy, long strokes. Too much spit to swallow it all and it makes the best noises like that—gurgling deep, the desperate suck of Jensen’s mouth.

All that keeps Jensen from demanding Jared’s cock back in his face is the firm fist Jared fastens in his hair. A weak whimper for that.

Jared soothes, “I’m not done,” and jacks his cock with his available hand to gather all that excess slobber. He smears it across Jensen’s cheek, drags over that mouth, that chin. Jensen groans—eyes wet and closed, he leans into the touch, chases it. “No offense, but. I’d rather fill you up elsewhere.”

Misha returns from his personal out-of-body experience as Jared proposes to take this to the bedroom. No complaints for that, naturally. Misha cups himself over his pants, overwhelmed. Blood rush. Their crowded little corridor, the wall of Jensen’s nieces and nephews, Misha’s fishing gear and dirt bike, the tall-ass escort Misha bought to fuck his boyfriend up the ass for a week.

Holy fucking shit, he might be the best boyfriend ever.

A needy, “Babe,” and Misha is right there, kisses the taste of professional cock out of that mouth. Roams his hands up those heated arms, gets his waist squeezed with his head buzzing—Jared, roaming around, dragging his supplies. Misha grunt-laughs for Jensen’s well-intentioned, “You all right?” and sucks on that swollen lip for a beat, grabs one wrist to cup Jensen’s hand over where his mood is clearly legible. Jensen states, “Oh,” and squeezes, once. A smile, a huff.

“You, enjoying yourself like that, might be the best present I ever gave to my fucking self.”

Jared steps in with them, one hand to the small of Misha’s back, the other scratching up into Jensen’s hairline. That sweet, handsome smile, like he’s just your next-door neighbor kid asking whether you by any chance might have seen his cat in your yard today instead of that guy sliding his hand down to grab someone else’s boyfriend’s ass, make said boyfriend crowd his dick against yours and dig his nails into your forearm.

So smooth, really. Jared’s reviews didn’t lie.

A loud clap, and Jensen goes stock-still.

Jared keeps smiling. “I need you with your ass up by the foot of that bed. And a chair.”

Jensen is still mad when Misha calls it the Sex Chair. It’s what it is, though, no matter the pure intentions anyone’s great aunt had whilst handing it down. Jared’s body size sure appreciates its capacities. Misha’s not sure if the grandma florals can be fully appreciated with the curtains drawn like that, mere peeks of sunlight. Middle of the morning, somewhere outside, where Misha isn’t settling in atop his Yoga cushion next to the bed. He shakes his head when Jared gives him a glance plus a gesture towards an only vaguely available spot right next to Jensen (already propped up and sighing with one of Jared’s hands roaming the back of his thigh). Jared acknowledges; nods, before he turns fully towards the task at hand. Elbow on his knee, he just—touches.

Roam of hands. The fuzz over Jensen’s ass cheeks the waxing studio didn’t consider getting rid of, the strawberry-blondness of it all the way down his legs. Jensen melts into the brand-new sheets some more, pushes back into the caress with relish. Jared’s earlier slap had been so light it didn’t even leave a lick of red.

“Hey,” and Jensen _hmms_ in reply (for the tame, close-mouthed kiss to his ass cheek). “Hey, birthday boy, you good? Yeah. Yeah, all good, aren’t you.” Jared laughs, delighted, enamored.

Clean shave on him as well, and he makes Jensen feel that as he nuzzles up to his ass, rubs his cheek against it like a cat. Chases with a kiss, a bunch of them. Hands and face and lips, just—worshipping, like Misha instructed during that top-secret meeting they had weeks ago. (Jared, taking eager notes on his phone.) Jensen deserves it.

And, against all odds, he manages to give in to it just fine.

A tremor around Jensen’s brow—Jared, fucking his tongue back in there, if Misha had to guess. A noise from deep down. Jensen hasn’t even attempted to get his hand on his dick.

He huffs, cringes, for Jared’s teasing, “So perfect,” for those big hands pulling him open, kneading at him. Kisses that leave his skin slick, hints of red where Jared lets his teeth drag nice. “Just FYI, you’ll be sitting on my face. A lot.”

Jensen groans. Misha grins.

“Love how easy you are. How you’re just giving yourself over, Jensen,” and one thumb inches dangerously close just to smooth across that puckered skin. Has Jensen grumbling _fuck_ when it’s gone as soon as it came, gets replaced by Jared’s mouth, his tongue. Jared smirks and settles back in.

Misha licks his lip, grants himself the heel of his hand over the swell of his cock. Just to stay on edge, stay in the game. Different from their usual spiel for sure, but Misha knew it wasn’t him who kept Jensen away from some little extra fun. Jensen is so fucking—peculiar.

Jensen grinds back against Jared. Keeps his arms anchored below his shoulders and he’s so so tense; Misha can only imagine the imperative to get a hand on himself. (It probably doesn’t fucking help that they’ve been fooling around, built Jensen up to this—Misha’s not a fan of getting all up in there but he prides himself with some decent tongue work. The added mental (verbal) stuff did it for Jensen just fine. The implications. The fantasy.) He’s doing so good. Misha tells him so just to get that cute, unguarded reaction.

“C’mon.” Jared sounds drowned, sounds dark. “C’mon, pretty thing. Know you can.” He works his thumb up and down Jensen’s taint to help along; curls his other hand around Jensen’s balls when that’s not enough—just a series of gentle, coaxing tugs. Jensen’s back stiffens and then he shudders, and,

“Oh, _fuck_ …!”

Misha knows what that’s like. His eyes can’t decide between—Jensen’s face, scarlet and burying itself in their sheets, or Jared, redoubling his efforts, abandoning everything and anything that isn’t Jensen’s ass. Tongues him so good and deep, all focused and controlled; works Jensen through it. Somewhat ruined, that orgasm, probably, without any substantial stimulation. Then again, Jared’s tongue is pretty big.

Jensen’s noises and body language assure them that he doesn’t fucking mind it, not one bit.

Jared emerges only to lap flat across the swollen tremble of Jensen’s hole. Drags his thumb over it again; sinks his teeth in close to it and earns himself another squirm.

“So sensitive. Keeps sucking at my tongue, you know that? Begs me in.”

Finally, that thumb sinks inside—with a gulp from Jensen, a rough slap to his ass that reminds him to stay still, let it happen.

“Yeah, like this? Just like this. Good boy.” Jared’s thumb pumps firm, all the way down to the webbing of his hand. A steady, milking pulse. Another bunch of smacks to Jensen’s ass with the available hand. “Poor baby. Need to get fucked so bad, don’t you? Say it.”

“Uh, please—” A way, _way_ harsher slap. Jensen’s jaw clenches adorable. Through the grit of his teeth: “Please, I, I need it. Fuck, _please_ …!”

Jared tuts, kneads at the abused spot on Jensen’s ass. Keeps pumping his thumb but slows down. More of a tug than a push, now, and Misha’s stupid mouth waters anew. “So fucking tight,” and yeah, Misha can tell—how Jensen’s body keeps clinging, despite the teasing, the orgasm. That level of nervousness Jensen has no access to, the lack of…well, practice. Soft, “Don’t worry,” and, “I’ll take care of that.”

Misha’s suspicion about the contents of that huge-ass duffle bag is confirmed—he’s been to _parties_ that had fewer toy options. Part of Jared’s job, of course, but still. Lube, one of the smaller dildos. The kid works Jensen up to it with one and then two fingers. Scissors them wide as he keeps muttering obscenities, praise—drunk on the sight, professional or not. His line of work is a little easier to be passionate about, really.

Jensen, who seems to have lost all requirements for bones in his entire body, likes to insist that no, babe, it’s all right, I don’t mind it much. Balked at the offer of how maybe they could try a double-ended dildo, see if that works for them—it’s not like I’ll _die_ if I don’t get it, y’know; I’m _fine_ with keeping it one way. You’re making this seem like _such a huge issue_ , Misha, _what the hell_. I don’t _care_.

Jared keeps one hand braced against Jensen’s ass just so he won’t fuck himself back on the fake cock working him soft inside. Promised, “Just getting started,” and half a smile towards Misha—looking for attention, for approval. Misha smirks, nods.

Jared was generous enough to let them work out the STI situation with mutual tests (and the threat of a hefty fine in their written agreement), but he’s blessedly meticulous about safe toy use. Efficient with it, too, like it’s the most natural thing. Misha kind of wants to see him rolling a condom on his actual cock like that, all casual and professional, see it all wrapped and maybe cute-colored and—well, but, that’s not what this is about.

Jensen groans for the next size. Gentle rub to his ass, the faint bruises that begin to form. Testing push, a twist to Jared’s wrist—the toy sinks in several inches, easily, before Jared has to rock it in place again, work for it.

“Gonna need you to open up, Jen; c’mon. I’m a lot bigger than that.”

A good cue for Misha to peek. Jared had tucked himself back into his slacks earlier, and it’s just—obscene. Of course, but. Hell. Jensen has good (albeit risky) taste.

More lube. Gentle, “Let me,” and a kiss to the root of Jensen’s spine.

Jensen groans, turns his head. Misha swoops his hand up that back, that neck. “You good, champ?”

Muffled, “I forgot,” and shit, he sounds so wrecked already. “Forgot how—how it _feels_ , when— _God_ ,” and his voice breaks off there for Jared, fucking the toy in firm and deep for a beat just to pull out all the way, chuckle at him.

Misha does his best not to laugh along. “Hurts?”

Jensen slur-nods, “So good,” and gets the toy again, down to the flared fat base of it—his body surges forward, away, before he can stop it, but Jared’s tutting, pulls him back by the hip. Makes him sink into it, accept it.

Jared’s arm moves slow, controlled. Veins show on his tanned forearm, the back of his hand. He’s left the chair, stands for better leverage, more range. Jensen makes soft, lost noises as he hangs from the toy, from Jared’s hand.

“You’re so fucking hard again.” (Appreciative, curious.) “Close?”

Weak, “No,” and a whimper for that particularly deep shove. “No, jus’…feels so fucking good. I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Come from this?” A whimper. “Come so soon again?” Jared scoffs, smirks. “Don’t worry about that.”

He pulls the toy out anew. Two thumbs to hold Jensen open—a first, barely-there gape. Jensen’s body struggles closed, mouths at nothing. Jared purses his lips to bullseye a mouthful of spit and watches it get swallowed up without much choice. A thumb to chase after it, rub it in. The lube squelches nasty, like they’re already fucking (Jensen sighs like it, too).

“I want you to remember this. How it feels,” murmurs Jared from above; three fingers before he switches back to the toy. “’Cause it’ll be a long fucking while until you’ll be this fucking tight again.”

When Jared finally, finally strips out of his clothes, finally slicks his own cock and climbs onto the bed, onto Jensen, it’s—both a relief and an incentive. Misha rises off his cushion before he can collect himself, sit back down—not now, not yet. Just—

Jared, flattening himself over Jensen’s back, closing his teeth around Jensen’s neck from behind. How Jensen’s hips hitch up with Jared kneeing his thighs apart, making room, demanding access. Jared’s bulked arms, thick with how he’s propped up on his elbows. The pink of Jensen’s ears, the fall of Jared’s hair.

Jared gets one hand between them; no more teasing. Easy but strong and Jensen tenses for it, of course he does. Goes rigid and Jared _shh-shhs_ at him, lets go of his dick to rub into the deep curve of Jensen’s lower back instead—works the heft of his cock against the resistance of Jensen’s guts in small increments, inch by inch, until Jensen finally sinks low. Lets go. Hands everything over.

His eyes are closed and his lips are parted, and his brows—twitch for every drag. Every push of Jared’s body.

“There you go.”

A kiss to the scarlet of Jensen’s ear, a suck to that earlobe. Jared rocks and Jensen chokes back a whine. Jared’s hand engulfs the fist Jensen strangles the sheets with.

“That what you wanted, hm? Good enough?” and all Jensen can contribute to that is a coarse,

“Fuck,”

and his voice dies off with a mean shove, probably too-deep.

Jared grins against Jensen’s ear, flicks his eyes over to Misha like this is a conspiracy. Keeps purring, “That about big enough for you?” and Jensen chortles something he’d never admit to outside of these four walls, this moment, and that’s okay. That’s all fucking right.

Jensen has lost coherent language even prior to Jared bottoming out. Just gasps and babbles while Jared breaks him open, keeps him pinned with his weight alone. Gets his ear chewed at; the side of his throat. Jared groans like he’s pleased. Like Jensen is doing so good for him and that he wants him to know that.

Not Jensen’s first time on this end of the rainbow, but. It’s been some time. (“I don’t—I mean, if you’re not into it, I respect that.”)

Low, promising, “I’m not pulling out until I’m done,” and Jensen nods, and Jared allows their fingers to interlace just because he’s settling in for good, now, works himself in increasingly shorter, quicker strokes, and Jensen needs something to hold onto other than the girth of Jared’s cock.

The bed is quaking soon enough.

Jensen’s modesty tries to keep him in line, still, but Jared chips away at that with every well-paced thrust, with every casual-punishing slap to Jensen’s ass, the side of his thigh—orders him to open up, take it, c’mon. Jensen has to sob for his breath. Curls into Misha’s hand, lets him thumb his mouth open, press down on his tongue. Blinks irritated, overwhelmed. Gets his neck bitten, again.

Misha climbs in, crowds their faces together. Jensen kisses him on autopilot, moans into Misha’s mouth.

Misha shares that he can’t wait to see Jensen’s ass gaping wide open, full of come, and Jensen sobs for real, then. As in: wet.

Could just be thanks to Jared, slapping their bodies together like Jensen does this on the regular. Gets up on his knees and takes Jensen with him, holds his hips so the angle is right, available; Jensen wails yet struggles to one elbow so he can push back into it, move with it. Misha weaves his hands into that perfectly-groomed hair that’s now just as rearranged as Jensen’s guts, holds that head firm. More resistance for Jared to force up against, get all up in there.

A whined growl until Jensen breaks: “Fuck— _fuck_!” and he scrambles as his body bucks on its own account, but Jared snatches that flailing arm, pins it behind Jensen’s back while he coos, screws through the tremors of Jensen, coming hands-free again.

“Easy, _easy_.” Jared laughs. Doesn’t give the man a single second. “I’m not done, baby.”

He reduces Jensen to a sobbing, sloppy mess. Flushed from the neck up (and the bites and bruises bloom beautifully already), all Jensen can do is moan into the sheets, let them hold him down, decide for him. His ass finally slurps with those satisfying, deep noises, nice and open and no fight left. Absent tremors whenever another aftershock bolts through him, makes his toes curl. No protest whatsoever as Jared continues to bounce him on his cock.

Jared pauses eventually, casually: “You need a break?” and Misha sees Jensen’s mind reeling, trying to make sense of anything. Remember where he fucking is, probably.

Kinda hard to make out, but Jensen gives a faint _yes_. Jared leans down, no longer moving, to pet Jensen’s back, kiss his shoulder. Jensen mumbles, “Stay in me,” and Jared laughs, but he complies. Of course.

They lay down together, all three of them with Jensen in the middle. Who’s catching his breath, mostly; coming down. His hand automatically drifts to Misha’s dick. Misha doesn’t stop him.

Jensen groans, “Fuck...” Misha shares a grin with Jared over Jensen’s head. “Fuck, that was… _Fuck_.”

“You always come this easy?”

“Fortunately not,” says Misha, and undoes the drawstring of his pants so Jensen can get his hand inside. Jensen grumbles, hides his face in Misha’s chest. Misha kisses his ear, pets through his hair.

Jared props his head onto his knuckles and lays back, relaxes. Rolls his hips every now and then, and Misha wonders how long he can keep it up, if that’s some sort of number he’s supposed to uphold or anything. Jared pets along Jensen’s hips, his stomach. Looks at Misha, mostly (his face; where Jensen half-heartedly works his hand). Idling. Waiting for the next cue.

Things get uncomfortable for Jensen, eventually, so he begrudgingly allows Jared to finally pull out. He doesn’t comment on the discreet cleaning wipes or on Misha’s smug expression.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” is all Misha gets. Which is okay, because Jensen keeps stroking his cock nevertheless. Even lets him worm out of his pants, kisses Misha’s throat. Misha hisses for a lazy suck, pets behind Jensen’s ear.

“I bet you’re so fucking open right now.”

Jared pipes up: “Wanna see?”

“Jesus Christ.” (Misha uses this term very, very loosely.) “Oh, babe. Oh, you poor fucking thing, Jensen _Ross_.”

Jensen pleads, “Shut up,” but they keep peering into where Jared easily spreads him, half-rolls him over so he’s twisted in the middle, too fucked-out to put up much of a fight.

“I could park my _car_ in there!”

“Misha!”

Misha continues, “You’re _amazing_ ,” and Jared looks up at him like a proud school kid, like that was for him. Technically, in a way, it was. “Can I…?”

“Be my guest.”

Two fingers disappear easily. Misha gasps. He rises to his knees so he can shuffle over, get his cock into Jensen’s mouth. Half a muffled protest, but that’s solely for Jared, adding two fingers of his own. Together, they pry Jensen wider.

Misha peers up at the kid in a silent _uh_ _is this still aftercare?_ kinda question all over his face, but Jared encourages,

“More. Go ahead.”

Misha watches in fascination as he makes it four (as Jared subtly scoots down, kiss-licks around Misha’s buried fingers). Screws them, twists them, and Jensen moans around his cock, and that feels—oh, it’s good. Velvet on both ends, so fucking hot and endless.

“Jesus…! Please tell me your majesty has rested enough.”

Jensen mumbles what resembles a _screw you_ , but he doesn’t bite, and he doesn’t attempt to keep Jared from lapping into the swollen depth of his ass, and that’s—that.

~

It’s a heartbreak to leave the bedroom to the other two, but Misha’s bladder demands attention. His stomach tunes in right after. He surrenders and slips into a robe, a pair of slippers.

Kitchen, fridge. Chinese from two days ago. Jared’s on low carb only. So. Much. Chicken.

Misha has halfway forgotten about the universe over the generous amount of ginger in his food by the time Jared joins him. That puppy-smile, sated and big-dicked and just…it’s ridiculous, really.

Jensen is into complete dorks, and it shows.

“Nap time?” (Did you kill him with your dick yet?)

Jared grins, nods. “Nap time.” (He is knocked out for a couple of hours.)

Jared, who found the decency to at least pull on one of his workout jerseys, sets up some coffee. Misha gladly accepts a cup for dessert. Misha wonders if they’d get billed extra if any of Jared’s clothes ‘disappeared’.

“How’re you?” asks Jared, adorable, chin on his hand. Daytime outside, somewhere. Afternoon and golden light, drawn curtains, still. A foot flirts up Misha’s fuzzy shin, which he allows.

“Excellent.” Misha toasts towards the kid who chuckles like he’s flattered. So easy. So gorgeous. Not even his feet are cold. It’s really not fair.

Jared’s foot rises higher. And higher.

Misha lets his thighs fall open. Just a little.

Jared hums, “You need anything?” and Misha thinks _not exactly_ , but this isn’t about him. He tells Jared that much. Jared, polite and understanding and with his hair drooping into his warm, warm eyes, says, “All right,” and, “just checking in,” and in another life, his alter ego is banging the lights out of this kid. But—no. Birthday. _Jensen’s_ present. _Bad_ Misha.

It’s one lazy, indulgent week. Ordering out basically every meal, staying in bed—or the bathroom…or the living room. Too cold in the garden, unfortunately. (Five minutes were perfectly fine, though.)

All Jensen struggles with anymore is keeping up with his shave, and even that he less and less obsesses with.

That endless, “You good?” like Misha might magically change his mind, scream his head off about how _dare_ Jensen blow his load for someone else, how _dare_ he enjoy himself! Kissing helps. Keeps that mouth from blurting nonsense, too. Helps more that Jared thumbs his cock back up Jensen’s ass. Misha’s fingers get squished between them, pillow soft into Jensen’s ass cheeks. They might have to get a new mattress cover once this week is over.

A half-hearted, “You sure?” and Misha snorts, raises his brow. Bounces Jensen between Jared and himself with the grip he’s got on him and Jensen gasps for that, stumbles for that. Jared’s hand curls around his throat and squeezes. Jensen’s mouth is now constantly raw. If it never closes all the way again, well, society will have to deal with that.

“Very sure I love watching you like this, yes.” Jensen’s turn to scoff (if only absently, preoccupied). “Trust me. It’s not like you’re letting me go dry. Still taking care of me while Mr. Eleven Inches over here pounds you out—it’s impressive, really,” and Jensen flushes sweet for it; always. Misha cradles that face, thumbs at that mouth.

He untangles his leg from underneath the dogpile of them to hook it over Jensen’s knee. Eye contact while he guides Jensen’s hand where he wants it, while Jensen realizes, runs even hotter.

“Jesus Christ, Mish.”

Misha purrs, “That’s what I love about you,” and Jensen’s hand is unsteady at first but can be left alone to take over soon enough. The hungry push of his rough, dry fingers where Misha is nice and slick; Pavlovian. “So versatile. So good to use for all kinds of stuff.”

Jensen makes a small noise and Jared groans, “Fuck,” when he understands what they’re doing; what it does to Jensen. His hand squeezes tighter around Jensen’s throat and his hips slam forward harder. Jensen’s mouth pinches with his motivation to make this work. To take care of them both.

“That’s right.” Misha lies back, relaxes into it. Lets those fingers open him up where his negligible bathroom prep work didn’t reach. Jared fumbles between them to administer more lube and pushes Jensen forward on purpose just to throw him off even more. Misha chuckles. He loves this kid, seriously.

Jensen-trembled, “Fuck,” and Jared’s hand wraps around that otherwise blessedly ignored cock, slicks him up good. Holds it for him, threads it in for him. Misha hums, allows it.

Jared murmurs, “Such a good little toy, aren’t you?” right up against Jensen’s ear, his throat, and Jensen whimpers, stuck between them. Misha flexes on purpose, clenches Jensen up deep—makes him stutter, reel. Bottomed out, easy as that (Misha gets lots of practice). The distant bump Jared’s movements provide works Jensen deeper up Misha’s ass without his say-so, see-saws him. Misha goes just a _little_ bit cross-eyed for the stretch. “Fuck him, come on. Fuck yourself.”

Jensen does. Not long before Jared picks up his own thrusts, though. Misha can feel Jensen—rattling all over with the impact. The helpless flex of his cock, now buried nice and wet.

Jensen visibly struggles with the added stimulation. Misha not-helps with fondling his nipples, tugging them in synch with Jared’s efforts. “So pretty,” he teases, and Jensen moans in reply. Has his eyes closed like it’s all too much, like he has to focus on not blowing early, on keeping himself in line.

As if on cue, Jared goads, “Come on,” and sits back with one hand on Jensen’s shoulder for the momentum, and pistons into him hard enough to knock his breath right out of him. “Make it good for him. Work it right, baby.”

Jensen hasn’t been this pliable in _days_.

He comes too soon for Misha to get a chance. Which is forgivable, since they make Jensen eat his own load out of Misha’s ass. No complains for that, but—teary eyes. So humiliated, with Jared crooning encouragements, pushing and holding his face. It Jensen earns the privilege of sucking Misha off. Misha nearly hits the next available spiritual plane when Jared makes Jensen keep his load in his mouth to trade it over to Jared’s only to feed it up his ass, work it in with his fingers first, his cock next.

Funny how Jensen doesn’t think to bring up his fidelity tantrums again after that. Maybe the wisdom of age is finally catching up to him.

~

Such a bittersweet goodbye (sore, mostly). Misha smiles big and sure, he doesn’t _want_ Jared to leave, but he also has a date with the jacuzzi and some good dope which he’s pretty hyped for.

“Thank you so much for your valuable services. We will make sure to recommend you to our friends and family.”

Jared laughs in a way that tells Misha he’s not quite sure how hard he should be doubting that statement (smart boy) and pulls Misha into a big bear hug, squeezes him tight. “Thanks, man,” he says, before turning to Jensen.

Lingering, now significantly more bow-legged Jensen.

A different kind of embrace for him. Softer, warmer. A flirted kiss behind Jensen’s ear, maybe a murmured something to go along with that according to the gruff, “Yeah, yeah,” and the fake knuckle-punch to Jared’s shoulder once they part, the flush around Jensen’s ears (around Jared’s, too). “Thanks, seriously. This was—great. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome.” A flash of eyes to Misha. “You guys have my number, right?”

Misha opens the door. “Oh, absolutely. Ride safely.”

As they respectfully watch Jared hulking his way into his expensive-looking car, Misha doesn’t miss the longing sigh from his boyfriend.

Misha leans to him and mumbles, without taking his eyes off Jared, “I’ll give you his private Snapchat if you ask real nice.”

~

Routines are just about as fun as breaking them every once in a while—good, fun routines, of course. They are good at those, Jensen and him.

Misha has just about enough breath to groan, “Oh fuck, I fucking _missed_ that,” before his face gets pushed so far into the pillow that he doesn’t have to think about _anything_.

(Jensen has this delirious grunt-laugh that is entirely obscene. Part of Misha’s life mission is to coax it out of him as often as humanly possible.) “Greedy.”

Their bed creaks louder post-Jared.

“You kept thinking about this while he fucked me?” A low growl, unsteady with the harsh pounding of skin on skin, of Jensen just—gripping him, hauling him back to meet his thrusts. Misha is just one receptible line, and he’s freaking _loving_ it. “So _selfless_. Such a good Samaritan.”

Misha laughs his very own weird laugh.

Jensen drapes himself across Misha’s back so can hold him down, make him take all his weight. Makes him clench his legs together so he can straddle his ass, can keep pounding him out. They both groan for the added pressure of the position, the familiar grind of—them, together.

Misha’s own distant gibberish gets drowned out by the heavy slap of their bodies, of Jensen’s deeply satisfied groan right up against his ear, his shoulder.

Jensen slurs, “Baby,” into Misha’s hair, lost and dick-drunk and just…Misha’s.

Yeah, yup. Best. Boyfriend. Ever.


End file.
